


Waiting Game

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, But these two are still in love, Classroom Sex, Discussions of addiction and overdosing, Divorce, High School Reunion, If she were there, M/M, MJ is overseas but I forgot to mention it in this fic lmao, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, handjobs, high school sweethearts, previously established relationship, reunited, safe sex!, she probably wouldn't stand for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Peter hasn't seen Tony in fifteen years. Not since he had their hasty marriage annulled, graduated college, and moved across the country. Their twenty year high school reunion will find them reunited. They've both changed, but one thing hasn't. Hint: it's their feelings for each other.





	Waiting Game

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in a minute or so lmao

“Thirty-eight years old,” Peter mutters under his breath, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. “And I still don’t know how to tie a tie.”

Ned appears over his shoulder, a familiar warm presence. It’s been nearly fifteen years since Peter moved away to California, only seeing Ned for the odd weekend during the holidays or their weekly Skype sessions, but some things never change. Their friendship is one of them: something forged in fire and made invincible, but for all its strength, its still so _soft_. “Here,” he says. “Maria taught me years ago.”

“I wish she could have made it tonight,” Peter says. Ned’s wife of ten years is a lovely woman with the darkest skin he’s ever seen. When Peter visits New York, he often stays with them in their apartment, sleeping on the couch only to wake up to her in her mint colored bath robe telling him that breakfast is ready and coffee is waiting.

Then again, maybe it’s a good thing she isn’t there. As selfish as it is, tonight he is glad to have all of Ned’s attention on himself.

Maybe it will help him stay out of trouble.

“I wish she could have made it, too,” Ned admits, taking Peter’s tie and maneuvering it expertly into a Windsor knot. “But she’s showing some couple a house upstate, and she wants to be there early. I told her I’d send her a selfie. You’ll have to get my good angle.”

“She thinks all your angles are good.”

“Well, she’s farsighted.”

“_Barely_. She doesn’t even wear glasses—”

The bantering comes easy to them. It always has. It distracts him from the thoughts of what’s coming tonight, of his reflection in the mirror, of what his former classmates will think when they see him. The eyes are the same, with some extra lines around them. His hair isn’t as thick as it was in high school, but it’s certainly not thinning. His physique is mostly unchanged, though he isn’t running anymore eight minute miles. It’s hard, getting older. And what does he have to show for it? Yes, he’s successful in his field. He doesn’t have to worry about money (much). But there is an emptiness in his house in Palo Alto, one that echoes. It echoes inside him.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you,” Ned asks in the cab.

“Who?” Peter asks. Like he doesn’t know. He gives up the gimmick almost immediately, shoulders sagging. His gut feels full of snakes, twisting and squeezing the breath out of him. If he weren’t sitting down, he’s afraid his knees might knock together. He hasn’t been more scared of anything in his life—not moving across the country, not changing careers, _nothing_.

Nothing except seeing his ex-husband, Tony, for the first time in fifteen years.

“He’s going to be there,” Ned says calmly. “He already mentioned it to the tabloids. I called the school ahead and they said that they’ve got increased security just because of him. He’s definitely going.”

“Of course he’s going,” Peter mutters. “He’s Tony fucking Stark. He’s a billionaire. Why wouldn’t he go back to his twenty-year high school reunion.”

Ned is unphased in the face of Peter’s sarcasm. He reaches out to take his friend’s hand, both their palms sweaty. They haven’t held hands in years, not since they were just kids in high school, but Peter squeezes and squeezes and doesn’t ever want to let go.

“I’m scared,” Peter admits.

“Are you going to make a move?” Because of course Ned knows. Peter has never explicitly stated that his biggest regret—the thing he thinks about during every lull in his day, the thing he lies awake at night lamenting, what he wishes he could take back every time he tosses a penny into a fountain—is divorcing Tony.

They were high school sweethearts. When Tony moved from Malibu to New York in their sophomore year, there was animosity between them, both competing for the top spots in their class, both on the decathlon team, both filling out forms for the same scholarships their senior year. It only made sense that their animosity morphed to a tension of a whole different sort. Tony was beautiful, was clever and smart, so kind-hearted…so flawed.

But freshly eighteen, already committed to going to the same college together, Peter could only see through rose-tinted glasses. They married with only Peter’s aunt there at the courthouse to give her blessing (and her blessing came in the form of many warnings—_you’re so young, Peter, I hope you know what you’re doing_). Then their time spent in university was tumultuous at best.

Tony drank too much. There were a few incidences with cocaine that made the older boy aggressive and even more pig-headed. Mostly, it was the arguing. Tony’s instincts to lean towards stoicism and sarcasm in the face of emotion and turmoil made Peter feel more alone than ever in his own on-campus apartment. What had they been thinking? Neither of them was mature enough for marriage. Tony especially, Peter would think, noting his empty seat during the morning lectures, knowing that his husband was back at their apartment sleeping off his latest binge.

So, he went with his aunt to begin the annulment process. The judge was sympathetic and granted it. Peter Parker-Stark became Peter Parker again. He moved apartments, stopped answering Tony’s texts, sat on the other side of the room during the classes they shared together. It wasn’t easy. If anything, Tony’s behavior grew more reckless, which was hard for the younger man to ignore. There was one night when Peter got a call from the emergency room that Tony had overdosed, and Peter was still his emergency contact. He sat by his ex-husband’s side until the sun came up and he began to stir. Peter had left before Tony could wake, stopping by the front desk to tell the nurse to remove his contact information. He wouldn’t watch Tony kill himself—_couldn’t_.

After that, Tony got the hint. He stopped texting. He stopped making sad eyes at Peter from across the room. He stopped trying to corner him in the hallway after their lectures ended. While it was what Peter had wanted, it still made his heart ache, heavy. There was no winning. There was no clean break. Everything hurt.

Sitting two rows behind him at their graduation was the last time Peter saw him. In person. After that, all of his Tony-sightings were via the news: newspapers sold by vendors on the street, magazines beside the checkout at the store, interviews on television. Tony had always been brilliant, always had dreams of starting his own company. Peter had just never thought he’d be able to shake his addictions and do it.

For a long time, it seemed like he was able to manage both. Every other article seems to portray Tony as a partying playboy, different men and women on his arms every night, arrested once for possession of marijuana. But Tony never crashed and burned the way Peter had been so afraid of. Even after Peter had move away from New York (away from Tony, away from the huge tower in Manhattan that had his former last name emblazoned on the side), he’d kept track of Tony in the news. Seven years ago, he committed to rehab, and when he got out, he’d done more than turn over a new leaf. He’d abandoned that tree altogether.

Peter couldn’t help it. Alone in his condo one night, eating leftover take-out alone, he’d realized: leaving Tony had been the biggest mistake of his life. Every interview charmed him all over again, every smile cut as sweetly as it cured him. The passion in his ex-husband was visible, and he was doing it, living his dream, changing the world. So many nights he thought of trying Tony’s old number to see who might pick up. In a box in his closet were letters, apologies, pleadings, still in their envelopes, unlicked and unsent.

“I can’t make a move,” Peter says, feeling tortured. “I know what that looks like. Trying to get back together with him now that he’s on Forbes Wealthiest.”

“Does that have something to do with it?” asks Ned.

Peter is ashamed to feels tears burn at his eyes. “I remember when we sat on the floor of our apartment because we had no furniture. I remember eating ramen and rice for three meals a day until we both found jobs. I loved him, then. It’s not about the money.”

Ned squeezes his fingers. When the cab turns into their school lot, filled to the brim with cars, they slide together a little in the backseat, and Ned is a warm, solid presence beside him. Suddenly, Peter wants a hug, more than he’s wanted anything. Instead, he just squeezes back.

There is heightened security. There are paparazzi, real life people with cameras standing around. And Tony is already there, his car a sleek, sexy thing, obscene outside their simple high school. The cab drops them off and Peter pays with shaking hands. It’s something out of Alice in Wonderland, being back here after so many years. Things have changed—the school’s roof is a different color. The parking lot has been paved, finally. But it’s still the same place. They’re the ones who have changed.

“Ready?” Ned asks.

“No,” he says. They go in anyway, shifting through the crowd which is only there for Tony. They have to show their ID’s to get in, and Peter is already seeing familiar faces: shapes different, hair different, but features so similar. Voices the same. The old decathlon team is there and they freak out to see Peter, even Flash, who was only ever shit to him.

Peter shakes his hand anyway. It’s been twenty fucking years. Plenty of time for Flash to have changed.

The auditorium is decorated scantly, but classy. It’s preferable to the way Peter remembers their school dances being: all strobe lights and music so loud it was impossible to hear each other. His eyes scan the room, but there were so many people in their graduating class (and Tony is, admittedly, short) that Peter can’t spot him right away.

“Drinks?” Ned asks.

Peter nods. Across the room are a series of white-clothed tables with finger foods and drinks. They fill their plates with grapes and cheeses and shrimp cocktail and all manner of other things, laughing at the pile of food they’ve accumulated. Sporadically placed around the platters are framed pictures—outtakes from their yearbook, most likely—and they laugh so hard that tears fill Peter’s eyes at the picture of Flash taken at the prom afterparty wearing nothing but his vest and pants. The afterparty was held at the school also and an alcohol-free zone. That hadn’t stopped plenty of teens from drinking on the way there.

Their class president accosts them before they can sit down, giving them nametags and markers to write with. For the sake of irony, Peter considers writing his name down as PENIS, but really. He was grateful if no one would remember.

“Peter,” Ned says, lowly, pressing his nametag into place on the breast of his shirt. “I see Tony.”

“Where,” Peter breaths, marker shaking in his hand. He keeps his head ducked, staring at the table. He can’t look up. He just can’t.

“He’s—oh. Oh, Peter. He’s coming over here. Okay. T-minus ten seconds, I’d say. What should I do? Should I tackle him? Should we run? Peter, I—oh.”

Peter can feel him. Tony has always had a presence about him, a tangible aura that follows him around the room. For the first time in fifteen years, it washes over Peter like ocean tide slipping over his head. He feels it from his crown to his heels, goosebumps raising along his arms, hairs standing on end. It’s a Tony-sense.

A tanned hand enters his vision. There are more scars on the knuckles than there used to be, but he knows those hands. He knew them intimately. Those hands used to take him apart after a long day in classes, used to edge him for ages during finals when he was already wound up tighter than a spring.

“Hey, Leeds. Looking good. I think some friends of mine are being shown a house by your wife tomorrow.” The voice is the same, maybe a little deeper, rough and fast. It makes Peter shiver. He watches Ned shake hands with Tony but can’t cock his head up to take the man in.

“Oh, you’re friends with the Romanovs? The house is killer. Maria showed me some pictures.”

“Natasha talks about it all the time. Don’t tell your wife this, but they’re already pretty sold.”

“Jokes on you,” Ned says, whipping out his phone. “I’m going to tell her anyway.”

They laugh. Peter can’t avoid it anymore, can’t stare at his own hands like an idiot. He turns, tilting his head up.

He knows how Tony looks. Last week, the guy did a segment on Good Morning, America for fuck’s sake. He isn’t so different, has hardly changed, to be honest. He looks so good that it hits Peter all over again, he let this man go. He feels that stinging in the back of his eyes that warns him he is on the verge of tears, presses his lips together even as he sees Tony smile—he has more laugh lines, ones that Peter didn’t give him.

Peter holds out his hand, trembling, hoping to God that he doesn’t burst into tears. Tony stares at it for a long time before taking it—and pulling Peter up and out of his chair.

“Can I hug you?” Tony asks warmly. “Are we there yet? Can we get there, quickly? Because, not to be soft, I’m really craving a hug right now.”

Peter laughs wetly. He nods. They hug. Tony is barely an inch taller, definitely broader through the shoulders though. His suit feels silky against Peter’s skin, and he smells so fucking good. Cologne. Something expensive and familiar. The same cologne he got Peter for Christmas their first year together. He digs his fingers into Tony’s back, pressed flush together from chest to shin. It’s hard not to fall back into their old dynamic. In this man’s arms, he feels small and soft and cherished.

“It’s okay,” Tony says softly. “It’s okay. Okay?”

Peter nods. He doesn’t know what’s okay, because nothing feels okay, except for this moment. This singular moment, when Peter clicks back into place with the neighboring puzzle piece that he left behind so many years ago.

Tony lets the hug go on far longer than is platonic. Except for the lack of swaying, people might have mistaken them for slow dancing.

“Now might not be the time,” Tony says into Peter’s neck, warm breath fanning over him. “But I texted you a few times, oh, a decade and a half or so ago, and you never got back to me. Like, what gives?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony pats his back, right between his shoulder blades, and hums—a warm sound that reverberates through Peter’s entire body. “I’m only kidding,” he admits. “Water under the bridge, Pete, I hope?”

_Pete_. God. He pulls back, a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and there isn’t any hope that Peter will be able to school his face. None at all. He must look tortured, on the verge of tears, years of regret that he will never be able to reverse. So much pain, and some anger too, because Tony became the man that Peter wanted, only years, years late.

“Want to walk with me?” Tony asks. His eyes flicker to Ned. “That okay, Leeds? Pete and I will go and see the locker that Thompson used to shove him in. Pay our tributes.”

Ned exchanges looks with him, unsubtle question written on his face. Peter smiles shakily, nods. “Just don’t check to see if he still fits.”

Tony keeps a hand on his back, escorting him out. The warmth sinks right through Peter’s shirt, down to his skin and deeper still, to his bones and his aching heart. This might be all he gets, the last interaction with Tony, the last touch, the last looks. What he gets tonight will have to hold him over for the rest of his life.

Tony leaves behind his security while they walk down the hallways, shoes soft against the tiled floors. It smells the same, and if he weren’t just a little taller, he’d be seeing everything exactly the same. Remembering it. The squeaking thunder of shoes as students filled the hall, the slamming of locker doors, the raucous discussions and laughter.

When he glances over, Tony is staring at him, a soft smile on.

“What?” Peter asks when Tony’s smile blooms.

“Just—you couldn’t have made it easy on me? Became hideously unattractive, or something? God, Pete, you haven’t changed at all.”

“_You_ have,” Peter says. His mouth has always worked a little faster than his brain.

“The crow’s feet? They’re my curse.”

“That’s—that’s not what I meant. Come on, Tony,” Peter says, bumping their shoulders, feeling twenty years younger. There are butterflies in his stomach again. Maybe between AP chem and Shakespearean Literature, he’ll catch a glimpse of Tony in the hallway, a split moment that could make his entire day. “You know you look great.”

“Yeah?” Tony asks. He sounds sincere. “Not going to lie. It feels damn good to hear you say it.”

“So modest,” Peter teases.

“That’s one thing that hasn’t changed,” admits Tony. He stops to rest against his old locker, leaning against it. These days, he wears tinted glasses, but they are off and hooked in the breast pocket of his suit. He’s styling his hair differently these days, but it works for him. Everything works for him. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. How’s California?”

“It’s—” _awful. Lonely_. “—great. I’m making security software for companies who want to stay ahead of cyber-attacks.”

“I keep up with your work.” Tony’s expression is unbearably tender and fond. “It’s impressive, but I expected no less from you.”

“Tony,” Peter whispers. “Tony, I know this is years too late, I know that you’re successful and happy and there’s no reason to bring up the past. But I just need to say that I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t have more faith in you, in the man you could be. You were—and I just—left. I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asks Tony. He pushes away from the lockers and comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Peter. “I’m not holding any grudges. I was a fucking mess in college, Pete. And for many years after. The things you caught me doing—I’m ashamed to admit that was only the half of it: the drugs, the drinking. You were the only thing that kept me together—”

“I know,” Peter laments. “And then I just left you—”

“It wasn’t your job. Come on, where’s the smart man I knew? You should know this. You can’t make a person change a moment before they’re ready to, and you’re not obliged to wait around in the meantime. Keeping me together wasn’t your responsibility.”

Peter’s face crumples. It’s more than he expected to hear after all these years—he was so afraid that Tony would be angry, would blame him, would rub in his face how far he’s come and how it is no thanks to Peter. The relief he feels at knowing Tony forgives him (or doesn’t think there’s anything to forgive) almost staggers him. But that’s only half the burden Peter carries.

“I wish I’d held on longer,” he admits. He can’t even look at Tony, the warm solidi presence by his side. He stares down at their shoes, dark and shined enough that they can see their faint reflections in them.

“I’m glad you didn’t. I was hurting us both. I wasn’t any good for you.”

“And now?” Peter asks.

“Now what?”

“Now, are you good for me?”

Tony turns until he has one shoulder braced against the lockers, all of his attention on Peter. No questioning that it’s a heady thing, a physical, tangible feeling, being under those dark eyes. He shivers all over with it, skin prickling, craving—“What are you asking, Pete?”

Peter shakes his head. He can’t say it. Can’t be rejected, even though he deserves it, after the way he rejected Tony all of those years ago. Tony reaches out and Peter flinches even though Tony is the gentlest man he knows, never raised anything more than his voice to him even in their most heated arguments. Warm fingers brush his chin, coax his head to turn and make eye contact.

“My therapist says that communication is key,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth drawn up. “Ironic, considering that I barely spoke a word to him for our first three sessions. Talk to me. We were no good at this back then, and we’re too smart for that. Let’s be good at it now.”

“You’re right, I just—I. I follow your work, too,” Peter ends, lamely. His eyes are wet, lips trembling even as he smiles. “I always have. I can’t stop.”

Tony groans. He reaches out for one of Peter’s hands and laces their fingers together. It’s been too many years—they don’t fit the way that they used to. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe this is something that they will have to relearn. That they will have the chance to relearn. Tony brings Peter’s hand up and presses his lips to the knuckles, facial hair brushing the skin. It’s the most chaste, platonic affection, but it takes Peter’s breath away. Then he turns Peter’s hand over, wrist up, and presses a kiss to his pulse. Surely he can feel it hammering away under his lips.

“You want me, Pete?” Peter nods, eyes closed to savor the way Tony’s lips brush his skin as he speaks. Then all at once, they are gone. When he slits his eyes open, Tony is watching him, serious. “I don’t want a fling. I don’t want a one-night stand. You were my one that got away—and unless you don’t want this—I’m not letting you go ever again.”

“How, Tony?” Peter whispers. “I live in California, you live in New York—”

“We’ll take it slow,” says Tony. He’s always been quick on his feet, and the picture he paints for Peter is everything he needs to hear. “Texting. Phone calls. Skype. And if things go well—and I want them to go well, Pete—I’ll fly to you or fly you to me and we’ll go out for the weekend. And if things go very well—and I want them to go very, very well—”

Peter laughs. “I get it, I get it—”

“Then we’ll figure things out. I’m flexible. California doesn’t have a SI headquarters yet, which I’ve always personally thought was such a shame. You could come to New York, too, if you want. Lots of companies here are vulnerable to cyber-attacks. I’m willing to stage a few myself, if it means you’ll have work—I’m joking, honestly, only a joke. God, I’ve missed that look on your face.

“And if New York doesn’t sound good? Pick a place. Any place. We can meet in the middle. We can leave the country. If it goes well.”

“And you want it to,” Peter finishes. He presses his palm to his mouth to smother his smile, but it’s no good. There’s no hiding it. “I want it to, too.”

They kiss, and it’s better than coming home. Peter’s home is an empty, lonely thing. This is warm, and soft, and so tender that it makes him ache from his chest right down to his groin. He brings up a hand to smooth over Tony’s cheek, down the curve of his neck, over the soft collar of his dress shirt. Tony coaxes his mouth open, licking softly and sweetly. He tastes faintly of some brown liquor, scotch or whiskey or bourbon.

All at once, their kisses change from a sampling to the desperation of two drowning men. Peter feels surrounded, overwhelmed in the best way. All of his senses are alight, signals jammed by the interference of Tony: facial hair and liquor and cologne and soft silk ties and the hot bulge below Tony’s leather belt, the one that presses against his own because Peter’s hips jut forward gently.

“I missed you,” Tony says when they come up for air. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you so fucking much.”

Peter whines. He grabs at the lapel of Tony’s suit to urge him closer. Tony turns them so that he can press Peter into the lockers of their youth, bracing one thigh between his open legs and rutting against him, tilting his head to mouth hotly at his neck. Peter gasps, keeps his eyes half-open to watch the other end of the hallway and make sure no one comes looking for them.

“Missed everything about you,” Tony says. His voice is wrecked, and Peter thinks he might be on the verge of tears. When he pulls back, he sees the slightest redness around Tony’s eyes, the sheen of unfallen tears. “Look at me, Pete. I need to say—I didn’t do any of it for you. You know that, right? My sobriety, my therapy. It wasn’t for you. It was for _me_. Because I was tired of being the kind of man who let other people down. Who let _himself_ down. I didn’t think I had a fucking snowball’s chance in hell getting you back, you know that right? If this goes south between us again…_and I don’t want it to_, but if it _does_? It will hurt like hell. But I will be okay. I want every day you spend with me, every phone call we share, every meal, every glance. I want it all to be because you want to talk with me, dine with me, look at me. Does that make sense?”

Peter nods. He reaches up to rub his thumb tenderly against the soft skin between Tony’s eye—it comes away only a little damp. “How could it be anything else?”

They kiss again. It’s fifteen years overdue. The library fines they must have accumulated would be incredible. They’re insatiable, eighteen years old again, spending their ‘wedding night’ in a motel 6 with candles that Tony bought at the local dollar store, ones that make the room smell like fresh cotton linens and that cast the room in a whole yellow glow. It wasn’t the first time they’d made love, but God it had been good. They’d nearly burned the room down, in more ways than one.

“Tony,” Peter groans, cock aching. He wonders about the car in the lot that belongs to Tony, whether the seats go back far enough for them to properly enjoy themselves. He thrusts his hips, desperate it a way he hasn’t been for anyone or anything in years. “Please,” he asks, not knowing what he’s asking for.

“You know I have you,” Tony says, biting at Peter’s throat. “You know I always have you. Come on, come here.”

Tony tugs him gently down the hallway. The first classroom they come to—AP Chemistry, or at least it was 20 years ago—Tony tugs on the handle and it opens. They duck in.

It’s still a chemistry classroom, the lab tables neatly arranged in rows. There is the faintest scent of cleaners and chemicals, a sinkful of glassware that some student didn’t put away. Tony and Peter had shared this class, Peter sitting at the front and Tony at the back. They don’t choose either of those lab tables, instead settling nearest to the door, unable to make it any further before Tony hoists Peter up onto one of the black, glossy tables.

“Can’t get enough of you,” Tony says, pressing Peter back so he can untuck his dress shirt from his slacks, push up the undershirt and mouth at Peter’s abs. They aren’t as defined as they were twenty years ago, but Peter is proud that there is still definition left, and plenty of strength beneath that. “God, you’re perfect. Still so perfect after all this time.”

“Tell me you’ve got a condom, lube, something—”

“All of the above, baby, be patient with me.”

Peter sits up abruptly. He threads his fingers through Tony’s hair and pulls gently until the other man gets the idea and leans back, their eyes meeting. “I’ve waited long enough, I think.”

Tony softens. Peter hasn’t seen such a serene, fond expression on his face since they were married. This side of Tony doesn’t exist in the tabloids. It fills up all the empty parts inside of him that gaped for so many years. But there’s another empty part of him that he’d like Tony to fill. ASAP.

“Undress,” Tony says firmly. “Just what’s necessary. Don’t want to get caught with anything more than our pants down, do we?”

“Don’t want to get caught at all,” Peter says snidely, opening his belt to leave it hanging at his sides while he unbuttons and unzips his dress slacks. He wrenches both down just as far as he needs to, rolls so that his stomach is pressed against the chilly lab table. He feels a moment of shyness, anxiety, but then Tony is pressing a reverent hand against his flank, rubbing soft skin with a tender thumb.

“God,” Tony says, wrecked already. “You’re a gift. I don’t know if I deserve you, Pete, but I’m willing to spend the rest of my life trying.”

“You can start by fucking my soul out of my body,” Peter says pressing his feverish cheek against the lab table. He’s smiling though. He’s missed this so much, the banter, the connection. The sound of Tony’s belt is loud in the room, the rustle of fabric deafening to Peter’s senses which feel dialed up past their limit. Tony reaches out to pull a stool from under the lip of the lab table, gently lifting Peter’s leg up to fold and rest on it. In this position, he’s spread wide open, the perfect cradle for Tony to fuck up into.

The first touch of Tony’s lubed fingers has Peter groaning. Tony has always been good at this, and the years have only given him more experience. He is gentle but relentless, massaging Peter’s rim, pressing in with a single twisting finger, then two, the stretch making Peter gasp and press back, urging Tony in to the knuckle. Tony fucks him with his fingers for several long minutes, leisurely, like they have all the time in the world. Peter knows not to rush him; this is Tony’s favorite part. Taking someone apart. Turning him into a leaking, whining mess.

“Think you’re ready, Pete?” Tony asks. “Think you can take my cock?”

“I know I can,” says Peter. “But are you ever going to give it to me?”

Tony spanks him lightly after pulling his fingers free. Then there is something larger, blunter, hotter at Peter’s opening and he lets himself go soft, opening up. It’s been so long since he’s bottomed for someone, but he remembers what to do. He’s so relaxed that he can’t even groan, just lets all the breath slip out of him as Tony presses in, gentle but insistent, until he’s bottomed out.

“How do you feel even better now than you did all those years ago?” Tony asks through his teeth. He leans down to bite at Peter’s shoulder through his shirt, just the soft press of teeth. Peter whines, panting, squeezing down around the cock inside him just to feel Tony jerk and bite harder. “Are you ready, Pete? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Ready, I’m ready, give it to me—”

Tony does. God, he does. He remembers just how Peter likes it, too, soft, long, deep thrusts that the younger man can feel so deep it’s in his fucking throat. Merciless, Tony thrusts into him again and again and again, pressing firmly along Peter’s prostate, every inward thrust accompanied by a jerk of Peter’s cock where it’s dribbling onto the tiled floors.

“You want to work your cock, baby?” Tony pants. “Or you want me to? Feeling lazy?”

“You, you,” Peter gasps. He’s not feeling lazy—he’s feeling alive and awake and invigorated and like he’s liable to explode at any moment—but he’s also desperate to feel those rough hands on him again. Tony is obliging, reaching around to wrap his fingers around Peter’s cock and begin jerking him off in the same way he does everything: thoroughly, leisurely, efficiently. “God, yes, thank you, please Tony—”

Tony groans. “Keep talking like that and I’m going to blow my load in you, baby. You want this over so quickly? Huh?”

“Thought we were just getting started.” Peter can’t help it. He’s laughing, grinning, giddy with it. “Give me your cum, sir,” he says, playing on Tony’s old kinks. “You can impress me with your stamina next time.”

Peter thinks that’s what did it: _next time_. Tony’s hips roughen, thrusting harder as he nears his end, and Peter clenches his muscles to squeeze around him. When Tony cums, he wraps a gentle but possessive hand around Peter’s throat, the other hand milking Peter’s cock for all it’s worth. Peter wishes they weren’t using a condom so he could feel the hot rush of cum—but there will be time for that. Time for everything he’s been wanting again all these years.

Even after Tony’s hips slow, he stays deep inside while he jerks Peter off. Taking the hand off of his throat, Tony reaches down to cradle Peter’s tight balls and that’s it—he’s gone, spurting all over the lab table, another stool in front of him, the floor. It lasts forever, Tony holding him through the wracking spasms of his body. It’s the best orgasm he can remember having, alone or with anyone else, in _years_.

“Thank you,” Peter whispers. “Thank you.”

Tony turns him around, hair disheveled, sweat at his temples and softening cock still out between his legs. “What for?” Tony asks, smirking. “For the hand-job?”

“That too,” says Peter, laughing.

They clean up—thoroughly, since neither of them are interested in leaving cum behind on 12th grade chemistry desks. By the time they stumble out of the classroom, they are re-dressed, hair combed, looking (except for the flush in their cheeks) like all that might have happened in Classroom 110 was just a lengthy, tender conversation.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Tony asks. When they pass his body guard standing where they left him, the guy is struggling to keep a straight face, though he follows them without a word. “I’m thinking…Indian cuisine.”

“That place at 99 Hudson Street? Is it still there?”

“God yes, I’d have left this city years ago if otherwise.”

-

And in the morning when he wakes up tangled in the sheets of Tony’s bed on the penthouse floor of Stark Tower, the news has pictures of them sitting cozily in Tamarind restaurant eating lamb kabobs with bell pepper crusts and sharing tindora poriyal.

The headlines read, Reunited.


End file.
